


Lifted

by theskywasblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot, Rescue, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-23
Updated: 2010-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 03:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You should be...more careful," Cas answers, meaning <i>more careful</i> as a euphemism for <i>stop getting yourself nearly killed, because I haven't installed the express elevator from Heaven yet and it's a pain in my ass to keep getting these emergency calls.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifted

They're never hunting another swamp monster, Dean vows as something that he desperately hopes isn't a tentacle curls around his ankle and yanks him underwater. He's got about half a lungful of air, swamp sludge up his nose, the dim awareness of Sam's shotgun going off like thunder, and enough time to think that he really doesn't want to end up as alligator shit, or worse yet, swamp monster shit.

He needs to take a breath, so badly that his chest aches, like fire burning behind his ribs, the reflex impossible to resist, and there's a name on the tip of his tongue that he's pretty sure he doesn't speak; then suddenly he feels hands on him, pulling him upwards, pulling him free. There's a great rush of air and swirl of vertigo - just enough for him to think _am I flying?_ \-- then he's doubled over on the mossy ground, hacking mud and foul water out of his throat.

Cas' grip on his wrist is like a steel band -- it doesn't hurt, exactly, but Dean is sure it's cutting off the circulation to his fingers. There's swamp grass in his hair and he looks ready to smite the living shit out of something.

Dean says "Cas..." wet and faintly gurgling – the back of his throat tastes like mould – and Cas looks at him for only an instant, his unearthly blue eyes all power and fury, and then Sam is crashing through the trees, shouting Dean's name.

***

Swamp mud stinks like a dead dog. Worse yet, it fucking itches, like bugs marching all over his skin, making Dean thoroughly bitchy on the forty minute ride back to the hotel. Dean banishes Sam to get food -- _cheeseburger dammit, I demand a cheeseburger...and some of those deep-fried apple pies_ \-- and goes to commandeer the shower and all the hot water the hotel can muster, when Cas is right _there_ \-- solid steel grip and eyes like blue fire.

"What?"

"You should be...more careful," Cas answers, meaning _more careful_ as a euphemism for _stop getting yourself nearly killed, because I haven't installed the express elevator from Heaven yet and it's a pain in my ass to keep getting these emergency calls._

"Fucking hell Cas. I don't need a babysitter. I could've handled it." It's mostly ire, but dammit if he doesn't understand how Cas feels. He would say the same thing to Sam...though it's actually a little fucked up that he's comparing the two.

"Your recent track record suggests otherwise."

And okay, he'll admit he had a close call with that rugaru three weeks ago, but otherwise it's been pretty much smooth sailing.

"Well you're not here to perch on my shoulder, right?"

"I would think I have a vested interest in making sure you don't end up at the bottom of a swamp."

The truth is, he probably does. Dean knows Cas would drop anything to keep his heart beating, and the truth is it scares the shit out of Dean to know that he has power over something so very beyond himself without having to point a gun at it. He didn't even have to ask for the power, Cas just _gave_ it to him, which is all kinds of dangerous by itself.

"You can let go of me now, Cas."

"No. I don't think I can."

Cas kisses like he's trying to pour grace down Dean's throat, like he wants Dean to taste it on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't seem to care that he's smearing half-dried swamp goo all over his mojo-dry cleaned suit or that Dean's mouth probably tastes like algae. He presses Dean against the bathroom door and pushes fingers through his muck-slick hair and breathes something in Enochain against his throat.

"Shower..." Dean manages, pulling his hand – with Cas' grip still unbreakable around his wrist – to the doorknob, and they both half-fall into the bathroom. He's pretty sure Cas uses his angel-mojo to get the water on, but Dean would rather it was used to get their clothes _off_ since his T-shirt and jeans are sticking to him in ways that are nothing short of disgusting; but Cas has this fetish for peeling away the layers and the feeling is kind of mutual. They stumble over the low lip of the tub and Cas pushes Dean up against the wall; the water sluices over them both and Cas' fingers make clear tracks in the mud on Dean's skin. Water slips into their open mouths every time their lips come apart, and Dean's thrilled by the clean, slightly metallic taste of it.

He wants to touch Cas, every inch of bare skin, put a hand on his cock – but it's pretty fucking difficult when Cas won't let go of his wrist for anything.

"You can give me my hand back now, Cas." He tries to twist away – after everything his old man taught him he should at least be able to break the hold, but Cas doesn't give an inch

"No I can't." Stubble rubs harsh against the side of Dean's neck as Cas sucks a mark into his shoulder, "you might drown."

"I'm serious."

He makes token resistance, really just testing, and Cas retalliates by spinning him, pinning him bodily against the cold tiles, both hands pinned to the wall, one by Cas' grip, the other by Dean's need to keep from going through the wall.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Cas' lips find his shoulder, his neck, the shell of his ear, marking out little spots that buzz with pleasure. "I'm not."

The force of the words makes Dean's breath catch in his throat, makes him go still for a moment as his mind weighs between impulses -- flight, fight, fuck -- or really, just fight versus fuck; he's never had a proper flight reflex, and he's not _scared_ of Cas.

Cas' fingers slip, soapy and determined, down the cleft of Dean's ass and the stillness shatters as every muscle in Dean's body shudders simultaneously.

"Holy shit Cas..."

Cas makes a sound that's equal parts laughter and agreement against Dean's shoulder. Dean loves that - that Cas laughs sometimes now, can understand a joke or sarcasm. He also loves how totally relentless Cas is with his mouth and fingers, to the point that Dean has no clue if he's being pulled apart at the seams or put back together. He presses his face to the slick tiles and just moans, knowing it's shameless and a little bit pathetic to be so wrecked by a pair of fingers in his ass and Cas' lips against his jaw that he wants to hump against the wall; but Cas absolutely feeds off it.

"Reckless..." Cas' teeth scrape down the tendon in Dean's neck and Dean's starting to feel a little unhinged, because all he can think is _more – God – more_ so desperate that even the sound of Cas' voice is getting him off. "You are...arrogant...and beautiful."

"Oh damn Cas...please," Dean is afraid he actually sobs, but he knows Cas won't call him on it. Cas will, however, finally give him what he wants, will finally start fucking him, in low slow thrusts that make Dean's chest ache from the building pressure.

He can come like this, knows that he's going to by the pinprick sensation in his thighs and the electric current zigzagging up and down his spine, but somehow it's still a surprise every time it happens. He presses his forehead against the tile, chants "Cas, Cas," like a prayer – and hell, if there's anyone in the world worth praying to, it's Cas, because he would actually answer.

Cas kisses the back of his neck, all slow tenderness to match his thrusts, and slips his grip from Dean's wrist to his hand, slotting his fingers between Dean's.

"I lifted you out of hell..." his voice is a ragged whisper, and Dean thinks that maybe he's not really supposed to hear the words over the sound of the water, except that Cas never speaks unless he wants someone to listen. "And _no one_ is taking you up to heaven but _me_."

It's like those seconds at the swamp – Dean breathless with nothing but Cas' grip to keep him from dropping out of the sky.

Though Dean would like to, they don't linger in the shower after; the hot water is running out and Sam should be back any time. Actually, he should be back already, but one of the great things about his little brother is that Sam is pretty damn perceptive, not to mention considerate when he wants to be. Dean puts on a worn-out Tee and a pair of sweats and finds something crappy to watch on the TV. He might actually have to burn his mud-caked clothes because the smell of them piled in the corner is absolutely _rotten_. Cas hangs his trench coat and suit jacket over the back of the desk chair and stretches out next to Dean in his shirtsleeves. He may be better at jokes and sarcasm, and he's definitely a master at sex, but his casual lounging could use a little work. He concentrates way too hard on the TV screen, like he's trying to puzzle it out.

Dean feigns an interest in a couple of circuits of NASCAR, feeling warm and content, with only the prospect of cheeseburgers keeping him awake, before it occurs to him to ask, "Hey Cas, did I fly?"

Cas looks over, his blue eyes guileless as he says, "When?"

"Back at the swamp, man. I could swear..."

"Did you enjoy it?" Cas asks before he can finish.

He wasn't really in a position to enjoy it – he was dying, or just a few watery breaths away from it – but if he had a chance to do it again, it might be pretty damned thrilling. As long as he didn't have to get covered in swamp muck again, and as long as he could keep his eyes closed; so he says, "Yeah."

And Cas answers, "Then yes, Dean. You flew."

-End-


End file.
